a second collection (is totally necessary)
by shineyma
Summary: Another collection of responses to prompts I receive on tumblr, because the first was getting out of control. Mostly Ward/Simmons in nature. [Chapters 7 through 12 are new on 3/29.]
1. Do you have a cuddle buddy yet?

A/N: ilosttrackofthings asked: ""Do you have a cuddle buddy yet?" I honestly don't care who. I mean I think we all know Grant and Jemma need it after what you've put them through, but I'll take anyone."

meghan84 requested the same sentence.

* * *

"Do you have a cuddle buddy yet?"

Grant winces a little—partly for the way Simmons' less-than-quiet voice aggravates the throbbing in his temples and partly for the phrasing—and shakes his head. "Not yet."

"Excellent," she says, and makes a pointed gesture towards his chest. "Take your shirt off, then."

He bites the inside of his cheek as he complies. He's not ashamed to admit, if only to himself, that it always gives him a little bit of a thrill to hear her say that. (And between the sheer number of scrapes Coulson gets them into, Grant's role as the one who has to get them _out_ of said scrapes, and Simmons' position as team medic? She says it a _lot_.)

One of these days, he promises himself, she's gonna say it in non-professional circumstances.

Today, however, is not that day. Today is a day in which, through some bizarre confluence of events, their team and another mobile response team have been infected with—something. A virus. Grant's kind of shaky on the details, what with having been unconscious when the infecting happened (fucking Asgardians; if he never hears another word about them and their fucking magic and advanced strength he will die a happy man), but the long and short of it is that they need skin contact.

Which is why Simmons is in the process of taking off _her_ shirt, too, and he'd be inclined to think that maybe Asgardians aren't so bad after all if not for the fact that she's got some pretty spectacular bruising coming in along her left side.

"That looks painful," he says, nodding at it, and she frowns.

"It is," she says frankly. "And I can't even take any sort of painkiller for it; there's no telling how Earth medicine might interact with Asgardian…_nonsense_."

He holds back a smile (because Simmons' continuing refusal to accept the idea of magic is just as adorable as the rest of her), and sits back against the couch.

"So," he says. "Cuddling? It'll make you feel better, right?"

"It will make us _both_ feel better," she corrects, dropping her shirt to the floor, and it takes all of Grant's considerable self-control to keep his eyes on hers instead of on her breasts. Her bra is a bright blue deliberately designed to draw the eye, which is just unfair, he thinks. "And how much did it hurt you to say the word cuddling?"

He has to laugh. "Not as much as I was expecting, actually."

"Oh, good," she says and, without further ado, drops into his lap. She wraps her arms around his neck, presses her cheek to his, and adds, "I'd hate to make this any more uncomfortable than it already is."

He bites back on the urge to tell her that _uncomfortable_ is not really the word that comes to mind, focusing instead on pulling her as close as possible—which, considering the way she's straddling him, is pretty close. Her skin is warm under his hands and her breasts are pressed up against his chest, and he doesn't know whether to curse the fact that she's still wearing her bra or be really, really thankful for it.

Some of the pain that's been spiking along his nerves since he regained consciousness is starting to ease, and he takes a deep breath.

"How long did you say this virus will take to pass?" he asks, keeping his voice low in deference to the fact that his mouth is right next to her ear.

Simmons rolls her shoulders a bit and nestles even closer. "Oh, at least an hour, I'd say."

So. He's going to spend at _least_ an hour with a shirtless Simmons straddling him while they suffer under the effects of a virus whose symptoms are alleviated by skin contact.

How long, he wonders, will he be able to hold back on the observation that there are other, more effective ways of maintaining skin contact than _cuddling_?

More importantly, what are the chances that she'd be amenable to investigating said ways?


	2. Are you a parking ticket?

A/N: lindewen asked: ""Are you a parking ticket? Cause you've got fine written all over you." - Ward x Simmons, please?"

* * *

"Are you a parking ticket? 'Cause you've got fine written all over you."

Jemma nearly chokes on her tea for laughing, leaving it to Skye to respond to Ward's bizarre question.

"How the heck did you just make a cheesy pick-up line sound like a _threat_?" she demands, incredulous.

"Practice," Ward deadpans, and passes Jemma a napkin. "You okay there, Simmons?"

"Fine," Jemma says, clearing her throat. "I just—was not expecting that." She gives him a sideways look. "Dare I ask what prompted it?"

"Skye thinks I need to practice picking women up," he says, in a tone which might be better suited to voicing the words _Skye thinks grass is purple_.

Jemma looks to Skye.

"What?" she asks defensively. "You saw what happened the last time he had to seduce someone for a mission!"

"Yes, I did," Jemma agrees slowly. "He smiled and she, essentially, said _take me, I'm yours_."

"Exactly!" Skye exclaims, jabbing a finger at her. "He didn't even have to try!"

"And that's a bad thing?" she asks uncertainly.

"It is when our mark this time is a literal _supermodel_," Skye says. "He needs to bring his A-game."

"I don't know what's more insulting," Ward muses, pushing away from the counter. "That you think I'm incapable or seducing a supermodel, or that you honestly think lame pick-up lines are my A-game."

"Do you even _have_ an A-game?" Skye asks skeptically.

"Sure," Ward shrugs, rounding the counter and heading for the door. "Just ask Simmons." He drops a kiss on her cheek as he passes, adding to Skye, "Now _she_ was a challenge."

Skye gapes. Jemma flushes.

"That is _not_ how you keep a secret," she calls after him. He ignores her, and she sets down her tea, intending to give chase.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Skye says, catching her arm. "Not so fast! I have some _serious_ questions for you, Jemma Simmons. And you are going to answer _all of them_."

Jemma scowls after Ward, reluctantly impressed by how smoothly he diverted Skye's attention away from his seduction skills (or the potential lack thereof). Her retaliation, she promises herself, will be just as swift and twice as brutal.

"_Simmons_."

Starting with sharing absolutely every detail of their encounter.

"Of course," she says, turning a pleasant smile on Skye. "What would you like to know?"


	3. You need to sleep sometime

A/N: safelycapricious asked: ""You need to sleep sometime." Biospecialist."

* * *

Grant has a lot to do and not much time to do it in, so as soon as he's stashed Koenig's body (in the store room; not the most secure of hiding spots, unfortunately, but the best he could do on short notice and with so little knowledge of the base), he goes looking for Jemma.

He finds her exactly where he expects to—in the kitchen, sitting at one of the tables and holding an ice pack to her head. Her eyes are closed, so he makes sure to scuff one foot along the floor as he crosses the room and comes to stand behind her. He doesn't want to scare her.

"Hey," he says, careful to keep his voice soft. Three days after the disaster at the Hub, her concussion is mostly gone, but the headache's sticking around. "How you feeling?"

"Like a great bloody chunk of ceiling fell on me," she grumbles, slumping back against him as he rests his hands on her shoulders. The ice pack is cold and wet against his stomach when she tips her head back to look at him. "What about you? How are your ribs?"

"Fine," he says—lies. They hurt like a bitch, actually, between the cheap shot Koenig got in and the stress that lifting his corpse into that vent put on them, but he can't tell her that. Grant Ward, agent of SHIELD, doesn't admit to feeling pain, not ever. Not even to his girlfriend.

Actually, _especially_ not to his girlfriend.

But this isn't why he's here. He's running out of time; he needs to get straight to the point.

"Why don't you get some sleep?" he suggests, rubbing her shoulders lightly. He keeps it as gentle as possible, but she still winces a little when his hand reaches her neck, and he lets go of her regretfully. "You look like you could use it."

She shakes her head, then winces again. "The others—"

"Are fine," he interrupts. "They'll call if anything changes, and if they do, I promise to wake you up."

"I don't know…"

"Jem, please," he says. He smooths her hair away from her forehead, careful to avoid the bruises, and she scrunches her nose at him. "You look exhausted. Did you sleep at all while I was gone?"

"Not much," she admits. "I was too worried."

"I'm sorry to have worried you," he says. "But you need to sleep sometime." He raises his voice slightly over her imminent objection, adding, "If the others _do_ end up needing us, you won't be much help to them if you pass out from exhaustion halfway through the flight."

"You may have a point," she says, and sighs, twisting in her seat to face him. "You _promise_ to wake me if anything happens?"

"Cross my heart," he says, doing so.

"Very well, then," she says. She drops the ice pack on the table and allows him to tug her to her feet. "Have you seen the quarters here, yet? They're very nice."

"I'm sure they are," he agrees, because for an underground bunker in the middle of nowhere, this place is pretty clearly designed for comfort. "But if you don't mind…"

"Yes?"

"I'd feel better if you slept on the Bus," he says.

Jemma frowns. "Why?"

"I don't know anything about this base," he says. "If something happens—"

"Oh, Grant—"

"If something happens," he repeats, louder. "I'd prefer for you to be in an environment I can control and predict." He pauses. "And I don't trust that Koenig guy. He's so…"

"Cheerful?" Jemma offers dryly. "Friendly?"

"Weird," he decides.

She rolls her eyes, but there's a fond smile tugging at her lips. He leans in and kisses her quickly, because he really can't help himself.

"So," he says. "Bus?"

"Oh, fine," she sighs. "If it will make you feel better—"

"It will," he confirms.

"Then yes, I'll sleep on the Bus," she says. "Even though there's a perfectly nice and perfectly _large_ bed in the quarters I was assigned when we arrived last night."

"I'll take your word for it," he says, and turns her towards the door. "Maybe we can check it out when the others get back."

"That would be nice," she says, a bit wistfully, then gives him a stern look. "Only for sleeping, mind. We're neither of us in any condition for sex, at the moment."

"No kidding," he agrees, frowning at the splint on her left wrist. Every time he looks at it he gets hit with the overwhelming urge to kill Hand. Again.

"Oh, don't make that face," she says, nudging him gently. "I'm fine." She pauses. "A bit turned around, perhaps. Do you remember which way the hangar is?"

"I do," he confirms, and takes her (uninjured) hand. "Come on."

He's a little concerned by her confusion—she's got a pretty good sense of direction, and she's been at this base long enough that she shouldn't be getting turned around anymore—but he'll chalk it up to a combination of exhaustion and the lingering effects of her head injury. Still, he makes a mental note to have her checked out by a real doctor as soon as possible; nothing against Trip, but field-med training is _not_ the same thing as med school.

It's not far from the kitchen to the hangar, but it's far enough that Jemma's starting to stumble by the time they reach the Bus.

"Careful," he says, steadying her as she trips at the bottom of the cargo ramp. "I'm in even less condition to carry you than I am for sex."

She laughs a little, pressing her forehead against his upper arm briefly. "I'm sorry. I'm just…very tired."

"I bet," he says. "It's been a long week."

"Has it only been a week?" she asks.

"Less, actually," he says, letting go of her hand so she can proceed him up the stairs. He wants to be in a position to catch her if she falls.

"It feels like so much longer," she muses, rubbing at her eyes with her good hand. "And with all we've got ahead of us…"

She trails off as they reach the top of the stairs, and he takes her hand again, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"None of that," he says. "Just get some sleep, okay? Leave the worrying to me."

"You know me better than that," she says, amused, but allows him to steer her through the lounge. He aims her towards his bunk, mostly because he can, and she doesn't protest (although she might not even notice; at this point, she looks to barely be keeping her eyes open). "I'm categorically incapable of not worrying."

She's slurring a little, and he shakes his head.

"Right now you're categorically incapable of _standing_," he says, sliding the door to his bunk open. "So, seriously. I'll take over on the worrying."

She mumbles something incomprehensible as she drops onto his bed, barely pausing to kick off her shoes before she crawls under the covers. She's asleep before he finishes pulling said covers over her shoulders, and he sighs, sinking down onto the edge of the mattress.

"I'm sorry," he tells her.

She doesn't hear him, of course; the sedative he injected her with is strong enough that she probably won't even twitch for at least twelve hours. He feels guilty about that, but not as guilty as he otherwise might—it's obvious, from how quickly it hit her, that she really does need the sleep.

He studies her, taking in the dark circles under her eyes, and thinks that maybe when she said she didn't sleep _much_ while he was gone, she actually meant that she didn't sleep _at all_.

He needs to get moving and he knows it. He's short on time; if he wants to get Skye out of the base before she sees the results of her hack of the NSA satellites—before she sees footage of him leading the assault on the Fridge—he can't afford to linger.

Still, he can't quite bring himself to leave Jemma. Unless something, somewhere goes very, very right for him, this is the last time she'll willingly sleep in his bed—the last time she'll joke with him and hold his hand and smile at him so freely.

His plans for Skye are simple and straightforward: feed her a story about the team being in danger, take her to wherever the hard drive needs to be decrypted, and, once it's unlocked, dump her somewhere semi-isolated. By the time she manages to contact the team, he'll be long gone, with both the hard drive and Jemma safely in his possession.

He has contingency plans for every possible complication. He knows that he can play on Skye's guilt over Jemma's injuries (a direct result of the explosives they set in the Hub) to make sure she doesn't get close enough to realize that Jemma's been drugged. He knows he can easily insure that she remains unarmed (the better not to shoot him when she finally realizes the truth) and off-balance (so as not to spot any of the holes in his story, of which there are, admittedly, several).

He knows how to handle Skye. He knows how to get what he wants from her, and she'll give it to him with a smile.

He's got a plan for everything.

Except Jemma.

With her, he's not working with a plan. It's a new and uncomfortable feeling. He _always_ has an exit strategy, a plan B (and C and D and so on)—some trick up his sleeve to guarantee that he comes out on top. He learned his lessons from Christian and Garrett and SHIELD itself, and he learned them well. He's made a living out of turning every situation to his advantage, no matter how bad things look at the start.

But what advantage is there to take, here? He's not delusional enough to believe that Jemma could ever be okay with him working for HYDRA; once she realizes who and what he is, she'll never want to see him again. She sure as hell won't want to _date_ him.

HYDRA could program her into forgiving him—into forgetting that there's anything to forgive—but he doesn't want that. He's seen the aftermath of brainwashing firsthand, and just the _thought_ of Jemma looking at him with blank eyes and the eerie, empty smile of the happily compliant turns his stomach.

He won't hurt her, and he won't allow anyone else to hurt her, either. And since there's not a chance in hell she'll stay with him willingly…He can't keep her. No matter what he does, he can't keep her.

But he can't leave her behind, either.

He leans in, ignoring the painful pull on his ribs, and presses a kiss to her forehead even as his watch beeps.

His time's up.


	4. S2 crack fic

A/N: safelycapricious asked: "S2 crack! The crackiest crack to ever crack. With extra crack please. Bonuses for Lorenzos, the word the, hammocks and or cookies."

* * *

The first time Ward shows up during one of her missions, Jemma is scared out of her wits.

The fifth time, she's beginning to get annoyed.

And by the twentieth time, she doesn't even bother to flinch anymore.

"Really?" she sighs when she looks up from her lunch to find him sliding into the seat across from her. "This isn't even dangerous. I'm _literally_ running errands."

"There's a price on your head," he says mildly, and steals one of her chips. "Errands are dangerous."

"There is _not_ a price on my head," she counters, rolling her eyes. "It's a half-hearted BOLO at most."

"And that doesn't scare you?" he asks, reaching for her plate again.

"Not as much as your table manners do," she asserts, and tugs her plate away. "Get your own lunch."

"Fine," he says, and waves over the waitress. "But half of that _is_ mine, you know."

"Oh, not this again," she mutters. She waits impatiently as he orders his lunch, and as soon as the waitress leaves, she points her fork at him. "We are _not_ married."

"Really?" he asks skeptically. "Because I think our joint bank account, this ring on my finger, and the Commonwealth of Massachusetts would beg to differ."

"We _used_ to be married," she allows. "But we aren't any longer." Then she pauses. "Wait, whose ring is that? That's not your ring."

"I know," he says, looking down at it mournfully. "But you still haven't given me back _mine_, so I had to make do."

"I've told you, you can have your ring as soon as you lock yourself back in the Vault," she says, eyeing the ring warily. "Did you honestly go out and buy another wedding ring?"

He clears his throat. "Sure. Let's go with that."

"_Grant_," she snaps, and curses herself when he grins. Someday, she swears, she's going to stop slipping on his name. In the meantime, the best way to deal with it is to move past it. "Did you _steal_ that ring?"

"Steal is a strong word," he claims. "I…borrowed it. From someone who doesn't need it anymore."

She covers her eyes. "Grant, if you tell me you stole that from a dead man…"

"I did not steal this from a dead man," he says reassuringly (and unconvincingly). Then, "And what do you mean, we're not married any longer? We're definitely still married."

She drops her hand to glare at him. "We are _not_."

"Yeah, we are," he says, and leans back as the waitress sets his plate in front of him. "Thank you. Anyway, we're both still alive, right? And we swore 'til death do us part, so…clearly, we're still married."

"Okay, no," she says. "There was definitely a clause in there about one of the parties becoming a murdering traitor."

"No, there wasn't," he disagrees, and takes a pointed bite of his sandwich.

"It was _implied_," she hisses. "'Til death or one of us becomes a _murdering traitor_ do us part!"

"You really need to let that go," he says, around a mouthful. "The whole murdering traitor thing—it's old news."

"You ruined an op for us _last week_," she reminds him, frustrated.

"Okay, that one was not my fault," he defends. "How was I supposed to know Coulson was after the package? I mean, really, guy's the Director of a treasonous secret agency. You'd think he'd have better things to do than collect trading cards."

She has both finished her lunch and reached the end of her tolerance with him, so she doesn't bother to reply. She simply picks up her handbag, digs out a few dollars for a tip, drops them on the table, and stands.

"I'm leaving now," she says unnecessarily. "Don't follow me and do _not_ drop in on me again. Seriously. Leave me alone."

But it's mostly rote by now, and they both know it.

"Don't take Eighth Street," he advises cheerfully. "It's crawling with cops."

She pauses. She shouldn't ask. She _knows_ she shouldn't ask. She—

"Why?"

—damn it. She asked.

"Someone killed a guy or something," he shrugs. "I don't know."

She sighs and, as she walks away, pulls out her phone to call Coulson.

"Sir?...Yes, I'm fine…Just on my way to my next stop now…No, it's all right. But you might want to send a team to Eighth Street. I think Ward's been active in the area."


	5. S2 crack fic: I'm just here for

A/N: anonymous asked: ""I don't love you, I'm just here for the chocolate." And I'd like it for Ward and Simmons. Thanks!"

Follows from previous chapter.

* * *

Grant figures there's a fifty-fifty chance of his invitation being entirely ignored, so he's beyond pleased when he hears a knock at his door at exactly seven o'clock.

"I don't love you," Jemma says without preamble as she sweeps past him. "I'm just here for the chocolate."

He uses the excuse of closing and locking the door to hide his smile, and makes sure to keep a suitably understanding expression as he faces her again.

"Fair enough," he says, rather than bringing up how a) she's completely capable of buying her own chocolate and b) there's sure to be _some_ kind of event happening at the Playground right now, since Skye is very much the type to insist on a team party to lift spirits. If Jemma isn't ready to accept that she's here because she wants to be—if she still feels the need to hide behind excuses—he's perfectly willing to accommodate her.

He's just glad she's here. It's a sign of how much progress they're making; this time last year, she would have laughed in his face if he'd invited her over for a date on Valentine's Day.

He's wearing her down—or maybe she's wearing _him_ down; it's hard to say. Either way, she's here and she's obviously gone to at least a _little_ trouble to look nice, wearing a red dress and the necklace he got her for their second anniversary. That's an encouraging sign, too.

Maybe she doesn't love him right now, but they'll get there (again) eventually. It'll just take patience, and Grant's got plenty of that.

If there's anything he's good at, it's the long game.


	6. S2 crack fic: 18 months later

A/N: anonymous asked: "If you're still accepting time stamp prompts, could I request eighteen months after that crackfic please?"

Follows from previous two chapters.

* * *

Jemma is more than tired. She's exhausted. She's sick of basically everything—the interpersonal drama at the Playground, HYDRA's unending schemes, Coulson's constant, unrealistic expectation that she draw a miracle out of her pocket every time he needs one—and everyone. She's perhaps two days away from quitting, changing her name, and moving to Brazil.

In short, she needs a holiday.

Once the most recent problem of the week (a twisted HYDRA plot involving puppetry, mouse traps, and enough poor-quality coffee to supply every police station in the southern United States) is wrapped up, Jemma packs a bag, drops a (somewhat scathing) note on Coulson's desk, and leaves the Playground. She walks two miles to a nearby public park, takes a seat on a bench, and waits.

Less than ten minutes later, Grant drops down next to her.

"Going somewhere?" he asks, nodding at her bag as he slings an arm around her shoulders.

"Yes," she says. "And you're coming with me."

He stills as she leans against him, and no wonder. As the months have passed, he's slowly been increasing their level of physical contact. She's allowed it—to a point—but she's never reciprocated.

In a week or two, she's sure to regret this, but right now she's exhausted, frustrated, and she misses her husband. So bugger morals and sides and right and wrong. She's going on holiday and she's taking Grant with her.

"Am I?" he asks, sounding delighted. He tightens his grip on her slightly, as though expecting her to try and shove him away. "Where are we going?"

"I don't care," she says. "Somewhere sunny and warm. Somewhere no one can find us."

"I can do that," he says, nodding thoughtfully. Then he pauses. "Did you tell the team you were leaving?"

"I left a note."

He makes an amused noise. "You know they're gonna think I kidnapped you again, right?"

"Probably," she agrees. "But at this point their opinion of you literally _cannot_ get any lower, so…"

"Fair point," he says. "Okay, give me an hour to get some things in order, and we can go."

He makes no move to stand, however, and she nudges him. "Would that hour be occurring today?"

"What, I can't revel in my victory for a minute?" he asks, all wounded innocence.

"Revel later," she advises, and gives him a shove. "I want to be gone before the others find my note."

"Work, work," he teases, and stands. Then he hesitates, staring down at her with consideration. "You know, you're kind of tempting fate here."

"Oh?" she asks. "How so?"

"Well, you're pretty close to the Playground," he points out. "If the others start looking for you, you won't be hard to find."

True enough. "I suppose you have a suggestion?"

"Funny you should ask," he says, and holds out a hand. "Come with me. I can show you my new place; you'll love it."

"Are you asking because you're expecting me to disappear as soon as you go?" she asks.

"Absolutely," he says shamelessly. "I don't want you to have a chance to change your mind."

"I won't," she assures him. But it's a cold day and she didn't really want to spend an hour sitting on this bench anyway, so she takes his hand and lets him pull her up. "All right, then, Grant. Lead the way."


	7. HYDRA Jemma and Ward go rogue

A/N: blacklacesslytherin asked: "I love your AUs! Do you think you could do something where Biospecialist was HYDRA but then went rogue?"

* * *

Sneaking into the hospital is so easy that it doesn't really deserve the term. There's no one on guard, no obvious security presence, and the room—when they reach it—is deserted, aside from the person they're there to see.

Really, all they have to do is walk in.

"Sloppy," Jemma says, disapproving, as she snags the chart from the end of the bed. "And they've left him without any visitors, as well—that's just unkind."

"He's in a coma, Jem," Grant reminds her lightly. "He doesn't know the difference."

"Actually, there's some debate about that," she tells him, even as she flips through the chart. "And even putting that aside, they could at the very least leave someone to explain things to him when he wakes."

It's been two weeks; at this point, Grant seriously doubts that anyone is expecting Fitz to wake from his coma. Still, he knows better than to say so to Jemma.

"They're being hunted," he reminds her instead. "Between HYDRA, that Talbot guy, and—well—us…" He shrugs. "They're low on resources and manpower and they think Fitz is safe where he is. I'm sure they'll be here the second he shows signs of waking."

"Security through obscurity," Jemma tsks, but she looks mollified. "As though a false name could hide him from _me_."

"I doubt you're the one they're hiding him from," he says. It looks like they're gonna be here for a while, so he drops into one of the visitor's chairs, propping his legs on the end of Fitz's bed. "They probably don't think you're a threat to him."

"They're right about that, at least," she sighs, and chews on her lip as she scans his chart. "This doesn't look good, darling."

"How bad is it?"

"He was brutally beaten and took several blows to the head," she says. "They can't conclusively judge how bad the damage was until he wakes, but as it is—the scans have not been encouraging." She looks near tears. "It's not a question of _whether_ he has brain damage, just how severe it is."

Well, fuck.

"I'm sorry, Jem," he says sincerely. He knows what Fitz means to her—has always known, even if he hasn't always been as understanding about it as he is these days—and the fact that they ended up on opposite sides after the HYDRA shake-up didn't change anything. "What do you wanna do about it?"

That they'll be taking revenge against HYDRA for this goes without saying. They both made it very clear, at the beginning, that Fitz was off-limits. Their orders were ignored, so—like Fitz's brain damage—it's just a matter of how severe their retaliation will be.

Jemma returns the chart to its place and perches on the edge of Fitz's bed, reaching out to smooth a hand along his cheek. It takes serious effort for Grant to remain in place instead of getting up and pulling her into his arms—he hates to see her so sad—but he manages.

"Look what they've done to you," she says quietly to Fitz. He's in pretty terrible shape; even aside from the respirator and the various other machines he's connected to, he's covered in bruises and bandages. Not to mention the fact that half of his head's been shaved.

Even _Grant_ is angry just looking at him; this must be killing Jemma.

"Jemma?" he prompts gently.

When she turns away from Fitz to look at him, her eyes are glossy with unshed tears, but her face is set.

"We're going to burn HYDRA to the ground," she says, slowly and deliberately. "And we are going to destroy every member of it so thoroughly that their great-great _grandchildren_ will flinch to hear our names."

He smiles. He does love it when she gets vicious. "With pleasure."


	8. Come on, just hit me!

A/N: safelycapricious asked: ""Come on, just hit me!" Biospecialist!"

(Takes place in the same universe as previous drabble, but-as that one takes place after this-you shouldn't need to read that to understand this.)

* * *

"Come _on_," Jemma bites out, well past the point of patience. "Just hit me!"

"I'm not gonna hit you," Grant says flatly, for perhaps the hundredth time.

"We agreed—"

"We _agreed_ to make Skye _think_ that I hurt you," he interrupts. "You didn't say anything about actually doing it. If you had, I'd've told you to come up with another plan."

"Which is _precisely_ why I didn't tell you," she says. "And now it's too late to draw up an entirely new one, so I'm afraid you've no choice. Hit me."

"I am _not_ going to hit you."

"We've already discussed this, Grant," she says. "This is our best hope for getting what we need from Skye without breaking my cover—which I will _remind_ you is only necessary because you've completely broken yours."

He throws his hands up. "What was I supposed to do?" He affects the monotone voice he always uses when mimicking his cover, "No, Skye, you _shouldn't_ hack the NSA, even though it would make tracking those prisoners twenty times easier. Why not? Well, I can't actually tell you, but trust me, I've got a good reason."

"Exactly," she says, jabbing a finger at him. "You were short on options and backed into a corner, much as we are now. You did the only thing you could and let her hack the NSA, even though it meant you had to cross off Koenig and kidnap her. Now, you'll do the only thing you can and hit me in order to make our deception convincing, even though you—"

"I'm not gonna hit you."

"Why are you being so _squeamish_ about this?" she demands, beyond frustrated. It's not as though she's looking _forward_ to being struck, but if he would stop whinging and just get on with it they could've been done by now. Skye will be regaining consciousness soon; they need to get this over with. "You've killed _three_ people today, one little punch—"

"I didn't _love_ any of those people," he snaps, appearing equally frustrated. "I made a promise—"

"Oh, _enough_ with the promises," she says. "I appreciate that you don't want to hurt me, darling, I truly do. But causing me a little bit of pain now will save us _both_ quite a lot of pain later. So I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist."

"Jem," he says, and there's a look in his eyes more suited to his cover. He's not often this solemn when he's being himself. "I don't know if I can."

She sighs, her anger dissipating like so much smoke, and closes the distance her frustrated pacing caused between them in order to wrap her arms around his neck.

"I know, darling," she says, as he rests his forehead against hers. "I know this is a sensitive topic, and I wouldn't ask you to do this if it weren't vital for the success of our plan."

Violence is Grant's bread and butter. It is not only his profession but one of his favorite pastimes, and he makes no apology for it. Still, she knew he would balk at the thought of harming _her_. He's caused her pain before, of course, but only in the most delicious of ways—and there is nothing enjoyable about striking her in the face.

His childhood left its mark on him, however much he denies it. Violence and lying and manipulation come as easily to him as breathing, and the only time he feels even the slightest regret for it is when he must turn those skills against the people he cares about. (Which is, admittedly, a very short list.)

In lieu of a response, he kisses her. He's stalling, but she allows it, hoping it will help him focus. He's emotionally compromised right now, and while it's flattering, it's also highly inconvenient.

His hands are deliberately gentle on her waist, but there's an edge of anger to the kiss, which she regrets. She wishes she could be delicate with this, gently coax him into it and let him have as much time as he needs to prepare, but unfortunately, it's just not possible.

The dendrotoxin's effects will be wearing off soon, and Jemma needs time to prepare for her own part in this deception. She's much less practiced at playing a role than Grant is; the cover she uses in SHIELD is familiar and easy like an old jumper, and the new spin she needs to put on it—the spin of having been terrorized by Grant while Skye was unconscious—will take every ounce of her (frankly lacking) skill to pull off.

So, regretfully, she must force his hand.

"Our only other option," she says, breaking the kiss. "Is to ask Deathlok to do it instead."

"No," Grant says at once, rearing back. His hands clamp down on her waist as though he's expecting her to go fetch their reluctant comrade this very second, and she has to work to hold back a smile. It will serve their purposes very well if his grip bruises her. "We can't trust him not to take it too far."

"Precisely," she agrees. "This is the only way, Grant."

He looks away, jaw tight. "Jemma—"

"You can make it up to me when this is all over," she promises. "We'll go away together, just the two of us. How does that sound, hmm? A nice holiday to recover from this whole mess."

"It'll take more than mai-tais and sunshine to fix this clusterfuck, Jem," he says.

"You, me, a private suite on the water," she lists, scratching her nails lightly along the back of his neck. "A third honeymoon. Won't that be lovely?"

"Fourth," he corrects, obviously amused despite himself. "You're forgetting Bangkok."

"How many times do I have to tell you, Bangkok does _not_ count—"

"Come on, I took you to a nice hotel, we saw the sights—"

"If by _sights_ you mean the inside of a jail cell—"

"Hey, that cell had ambience—"

"Oh, yes, and the corpses of the three cellmates you killed added such romance—"

"I wasn't going to let them hurt you," he says, which is _not_ the next line in the familiar exchange. His voice has gone dark, as have his eyes, and his fingers flex on her waist. "I made a promise."

"I know you did, love," she says softly. "And you've kept it admirably."

"You're asking me to break it."

"I'm asking you to _keep_ it," she counters. "If we fail, I'll receive far worse than a single punch." She kisses him, lightly, and is pleased by the resignation she sees in his eyes when she draws back. "Help me avoid the price of failure, Grant. Please."

He sighs heavily and steps back, out of her reach.

"All right," he says. His eyes are still dark, and she has the passing thought that he'll have no trouble selling this act to Skye if he keeps that look on his face. "But I'm gonna make it up to you, Jem. I'm gonna spend _weeks_ making it up to you, and you're not gonna complain."

"I won't," she says. "I promise."

"We'll go on vacation," he says. "I'm going to kill every man who looks at you, and you're not gonna say a single word about needing to keep a low profile or about my tendency to overreact."

"That sounds fair," she agrees, making a mental note to do some pre-emptive damage control before they go on holiday. She'll get Lorenzo on it; he does so love cleaning up the trail of bodies Grant inevitably leaves in his wake.

"I'm going to make you beg before I touch you," he continues. "And then I'm gonna fuck you until you beg me to stop. And you're not gonna complain about wanting a turn to touch me."

She draws a little _x_ over her (now racing) heart. It has been far, far too long since they had the opportunity to truly enjoy one another. And she so enjoys it when he gets demanding. She's looking forward to their holiday already.

"You may make it up to me to your heart's content," she promises. "But only if you do this for me now."

"Okay," he says, swallowing convulsively. He nods once, resolved. "Okay."

"Good," she smiles. She's not looking forward to this, but she's glad to have finally brought him on board, and she doesn't want to give him cause to change his mind again by appearing apprehensive. "Now. Hit me."


	9. Under-reacting

A/N: safelycapricious asked: "Under-reacting Biospecialist! =D"

* * *

Grant Ward has a lot of regrets.

Trying to burn down his parents' house without disabling the outdoor security system first, that's a big one. (It's what got him caught and landed him in juvie.) Taking that left turn in Borås, that's another. The cover he used in Tbilisi—there are no words for how much he regrets _that_ clusterfuck.

But he's never regretted anything as much as he regrets the entire sequence of events that led him to this moment: being cornered into kidnapping his own girlfriend.

He actually had a plan for how to break the whole HYDRA thing to her. It was a good one. He's been playing the long game since before their first kiss—since the moment he realized that he wanted her, he's been setting the foundation of how to get her in love with and accepting of the real him.

He didn't count on Captain fucking America shining the light on HYDRA for the whole world to see. He definitely didn't count on being forced back onto the team less than a week after he left it for what he thought was for good.

(He has to admit to being a little embarrassed by not predicting that Skye would have encrypted the hard drive. But in his defense, he was a little distracted at the time, what with trying to keep Fitz from having a breakdown over Jemma's unknown status while simultaneously attempting to come up with a plan for how to infiltrate the Hub without getting them all killed.)

Now his plan is beyond screwed, as, most likely, is his relationship. There's really not any way to come back from having to shoot your girlfriend (even with an ICER) when she walks in on you hiding the body of a man you've just killed.

He's still gonna try, of course—hence his current position, sitting on the coffee table in the lounge while Jemma is stretched out on the couch—but he's not expecting much success.

He's worried (and, honestly, angry) enough that he's lost track of his internal clock, so he has no idea how long it is before Jemma stirs. It's long enough that Skye—locked in the Cage until she's feeling a little more cooperative—has stopped banging on the walls, at least. (He's pretty sure that last bang he heard was her trying to break the door down with one of the chairs. Luckily, the Cage is built to withstand that kind of thing.)

Jemma is always adorable when she's just waking up, and apparently regaining consciousness after being hit with a dendrotoxin bullet is no exception. He keeps his hands braced on either side of him through sheer force of will; he wants so badly to touch her, but he doesn't know what he'll do if she shoves him away. Better not to risk it.

He knows the exact moment the memory of what happened hits her; one second she's snuggling sleepily into the couch, the next she stills completely. She doesn't open her eyes, but her hand fists in the throw pillow beneath her cheek.

"Grant," she says, voice carefully even.

"Jemma," he says. The wood of the coffee table bites into his palms.

"Did you shoot me?" she asks.

She literally stood there (pale and wide-eyed and stunned; not a good look for her) and watched him do it. There's no point in lying. "Yep."

"I thought so," she sighs, and opens her eyes. She grimaces a little, pressing a hand to her forehead, and sits up slowly. "Ugh. Those ICER rounds really are unpleasant, aren't they."

"They pack a punch, yeah," he agrees, watching her carefully. She's still a little pale, and it looks like he managed to smudge some of Koenig's blood on her neck in the process of carrying her up here (oops), but otherwise she looks okay. Calm.

"So," she sighs, swinging her legs off the couch and sitting forward to pin him with a look. "You're HYDRA?"

"I am," he says.

"For how long?"

Depends on how you look at it, really. "Years."

"I see," she says. "And you killed Eric?"

"Yep," he says. Then, figuring he might as well get the whole thing over with, he adds, "And kidnapped Skye. She's in the Cage."

Jemma glances in the direction of the hall leading to the Cage, frowning slightly.

"Did you hurt her?" she asks.

"Not much," he says. "She went crazy when she saw you passed out there and I had to get a little mean." He shrugs. "She'll be fine."

"Good," she says, drumming her fingers on her knee.

She's taking this much more calmly than he was expecting. Skye called him a Nazi, a serial killer, and a fuckface all in the first five seconds after realizing he was a traitor. She also tried to hit him. Twice.

Jemma's just…sitting there.

The silence stretches out, surprisingly not awkward, and it leaves him feeling a little off-balance. Skye's tantrum he knew how to deal with. He's got no clue how to handle Jemma's weird serenity. He can't work her if she doesn't give him anything to work _with_.

"So, what next?" she asks finally. "I presume you have some manner of nefarious plan?"

"That hard drive Skye downloaded all of the Bus' files onto is encrypted," he says. "She's gonna decrypt it for me."

"Is she?" Jemma asks skeptically.

"Eventually," he says with a smile. She gives him an odd look, and he quickly blanks his face. He needs to take it easy on the transition between his cover and the real him, give her some time to acclimate, and nice guy Grant Ward doesn't smile like that—sharp and vicious.

She's taking this weirdly well. He doesn't want to ruin it by being too much himself.

"If you say so," she says. "And then what?"

"Then I'll dump her somewhere," he says, making a split-second decision. He'd been flirting with the idea of crossing Skye off, but it's not likely to get him anything but more trouble. "Leave her to find her way back to the team while I get the hard drive back to Garrett."

If she's surprised at the mention of Garrett, she doesn't show it. (So he's gonna go with the assumption that she's not surprised; Jemma's not great at hiding her emotions, although she's doing a pretty good job of it right now.)

"And me?" she asks.

"Well, I haven't decided yet," he admits honestly. "I don't wanna hurt you."

"That's nice to hear," she says. "But?"

"But I'm not gonna let you go, either," he says. It's probably a little blunter than he should be, but there's no point in creeping around the subject. She's not leaving him. Period. "I don't suppose you'd be interested in joining HYDRA?"

"No," she agrees. "I wouldn't."

Well, it was worth a shot.

"Then I guess we're at an impasse," he says.

She's still so calm, and he can't resist the urge to touch her anymore, so he moves from the coffee table to sit next to her on the couch. She makes no attempt to shift away from him—in fact, when he reaches out to brush her hair away from her face, she leans into his touch the same way she always does.

Not that he's complaining, but he's starting to wonder if maybe that ICER round scrambled her brain. Has anyone tested the effects of dendrotoxin on geniuses?

"Feeling okay?" he asks.

"I've a slight headache," she says. "Presumably from the dendrotoxin. But that's all. Why?"

"Just wondering," he says, and—watching her face closely—rests his hand on her thigh. She doesn't shove him away—she doesn't even tense.

This is weird.

"I'm gonna give Skye a few more hours to calm down before I force the decryption issue," he says casually, tapping his fingers on Jemma's thigh. "In the meantime, you wanna help me change? Think I got some of Koenig's blood on my jeans."

He's still watching her carefully, and…she doesn't flinch. She doesn't tense. She frowns a little, but it's her scolding frown—her _you should take better care of yourself, Grant_ frown—not anything really unhappy.

He just made extremely casual reference to killing an ally who gave them shelter in their time of desperate need, and she barely even blinked. What the hell?

"Of course," she says. "I do hope you didn't do yourself any further harm putting him in that vent." She gives him that frown again. "Couldn't you have found somewhere to hide him that didn't involve lifting that much dead weight above your head? You've two cracked ribs, in case you've forgotten."

"I haven't," he promises automatically, because—what the _hell_? "And I'm pretty sure I didn't make them worse."

"Forgive me if I don't take your word for it," she says tartly, and stands. "Come along, then. Once I help you change I want another look at your ribs."

He lets her tug him to his feet, dazed and a little confused. If he'd had to guess what kind of reaction Jemma would have to catching him in the act of stashing a corpse, getting annoyed about his cracked ribs would _not_ have made the list. At all.

She keeps a hold of his hand as they walk the short distance to his bunk, and Grant decides not to look a gift horse in the mouth. If Jemma's not gonna throw a fit over his loyalties, he's definitely not complaining.

Things are looking up.


	10. Did it hurt? When you fell from Heaven?

A/N: ilosttrackofthings asked: "Woooooooo! (No one is going to understand what that is in reference to. But we do, Amy. We know.) And in the spirit of things... 28: Biospecialist "Did it hurt? ...When you fell from Heaven?""

* * *

"Did it hurt?"

Jemma startles so hard she nearly falls right off of her barstool. In fact, it's only the warm and unfortunately familiar hand (to match the unfortunately familiar voice) at her elbow that keeps her in her seat.

As soon as she's sure of her balance, she yanks her arm away and swivels on the stool to face Ward in one smooth motion. He's grown his beard in again since the last time she saw him, and combined with the leather jacket and black jeans he's sporting, he's looking particularly disreputable.

(And also _delicious_, much to her dismay. She'd hoped that him turning out to be evil would end her embarrassing crush on him—the whole mess was in desperate need of a silver lining, and that would've been a lovely one—but, horrifyingly, it only seems to have made it worse.)

"What are you doing here?" she demands.

"Manners, Simmons," he scolds, leaning against the bar next to her. He's close enough that she can smell his cologne, and she hates herself a little for not moving back—for not _wanting_ to move back. "You should answer my question before you ask one of your own."

_Don't make a scene_. Those are her orders for this mission—sit at the bar, sip at her drink, and don't make a scene.

So instead of storming away and/or pouring her drink over his head, she forces a smile and asks, through gritted teeth, "What was your question?"

"I asked, did it hurt," he says.

"…Did what hurt?" she asks, a touch incredulously. He _cannot_ be going where she thinks he's going with this.

He is. "When you fell from Heaven?"

She stares at him, speechless. He stares back, face earnest.

"I need another drink," she decides, swiveling back to face the bar. Before she can motion to the bartender, however, Ward's hand lands on hers, keeping it still.

"Oh, you don't wanna do that," he says, leaning in close. "Getting drunk on an op? Really unprofessional. Not to mention dangerous."

Her blood runs cold, because if Ward knows why she's here—if he knows what they're up to—then they're all in serious trouble.

She tries to play it off. "Who says I'm on an op? Maybe I'm just taking a night off."

Her voice is even, which is lovely. She really is getting better at lying—her time at HYDRA did a lot for those skills.

"Dressed like that?" Ward asks, skeptical. He gives her a slow once-over, and she wishes she could blame her flush on anger. "Come on, Simmons."

She tries to tug her hand out from under his, but he somehow manages to turn the motion into lacing his fingers with hers, and his grip is like steel. She won't be breaking it anytime soon.

Her other hand is free, but there's not much she can do without making a scene. And she _can't_ make a scene.

"What's wrong with how I'm dressed?" she asks instead.

"Absolutely nothing," he says, ghosting his free hand along her bare thigh. "It's a great look for you. Just not your usual style."

"What would _you_ know about my _usual style_?" she demands, doing her best to ignore the goosebumps that spring up in the wake of his touch. She doesn't hold out much hope that he'll have the courtesy to do the same.

"We lived together for six months," he points out.

"A year ago," she counters. "A lot can change in a year. And I was hardly going to dress for clubbing while we were on the Bus, now was I? It would've been unprofessional."

"True," he admits. "But still." He tugs lightly on the hem of her skirt (such as it is), and she bites down on the inside of her cheek, trying not to react. "I've never seen you wear a skirt before. I would've bet you didn't even own any."

"Well, I do," she says. "As you can see."

It's a half-truth. She does own skirts, but this isn't one of them. Ward's right; it's not at all her style. In fact, it's Skye's.

Still, she's hardly going to tell him so. And at least he's been successfully diverted.

As has she, she realizes suddenly.

"You never answered _my_ question," she reminds him. "What are you doing here?"

He smiles. "Would you believe _I'm_ taking the night off?"

"No," she says flatly.

He's still holding her hand. She hasn't forgotten—how could she _possibly_ forget—but she's been able to ignore it, focused as she is on the conversation. Now, though, she's forced to pay attention again, as he lifts their clasped hands to examine hers.

"Been hospitalized recently?" he asks, frowning at the bruise on the back of her hand.

The answer, of course, is yes, and obviously so. The bruise is blatant and distinctively the sort that comes from an IV.

"If I had," she says, attempting (fruitlessly) to tug her hand away, "It would be none of your business."

"I'll take that as a yes," he says, and presses his lips gently to the bruise.

He keeps his eyes locked on hers while he does it, and her heart thumps almost painfully. It's unfair, that such a horrid man should be so attractive. It's just completely, utterly unfair.

"You should take better care of yourself," he says, lowering their hands back to the bar. "Now that I'm not around to watch out for you."

Only by reminding herself that she needs not to make a scene does she resist the urge to kick him. Skye was right; his patronizing, friendly act _is_ just as annoying as it is creepy.

Yet, somehow, she's still dreadfully attracted to him.

This is a problem.

"You were _never_ around to watch out for us," she snaps, trying once more to yank her hand away. He finally lets go, but only after a pointed pause, as though to emphasize that it's only because he _wants_ to and not because she's made him. "You were around to _spy_ on us."

"It's not really an either/or situation," he muses. Though he's let go of her hand, he hasn't moved away at all; he's still close enough that she has no trouble hearing him over the music—close enough that she can feel the heat coming off his skin. He shifts a little, and his thigh bumps against her knee. She tries to pretend she doesn't notice. She fails. "I was spying on you _and_ watching out for you."

She scoffs.

"Come on, Simmons," he says. "You'd've been dead ten times over if it weren't for me."

She wants to tell him that all of those times he saved her life were cancelled out by the time he almost ended it. She wants to tell him that she went undercover at HYDRA and she knows things about the people he works for that make her sick to her stomach, that wake her in the middle of the night—things that make it hard for her to look at Bobbi, sometimes, even though Bobbi is amazing and brave and saved her life. She wants to remind him that she's saved his life, too, that she once performed emergency surgery on him on a fire escape and that he never would've made it out of South Ossetia if not for her and Skye's intervention.

There are so many things she'd like to say to him, but she realizes that he's once again managed to divert her, so she keeps them to herself.

Instead, she says, "You still haven't told me why you're here."

"No." There's an almost cruel twist to his smile, and it should _not_ make Jemma's mouth go dry. It really shouldn't. "I haven't."

Desperately and horribly attracted to a murderous traitor Jemma may be, but she is_ not_ stupid, and Ward's sudden change in demeanor is enough to put her on edge.

"Are you going to?" she asks, casually slipping her hand into her pocket. She doesn't have a comm for this mission—the better to blend in—but she _does_ have a panic button, and she's starting to think she should've pressed it ages ago.

In fact, she _knows_ she should've. She and her libido are going to have to have a very serious chat once all of this is over.

(Assuming she makes it out of this alive, that is. But that's just a ridiculously morbid thought, so she decides to pretend she hasn't had it.)

"You know," Ward says, thoughtfully. "I think I'd rather show you."

Then, before she has the time to properly worry about that _very_ ominous statement, he's kissing her. His mouth is warm and insistent against hers, he's got one hand in her hair and the other gripping her waist, and she'll later blame the fact that she spends at least thirty seconds kissing him back on pure reflex (though the truth is something closer to a combination of surprise and lust).

It takes her far longer than she'd like to shove him away, and the grin he's wearing when he pulls back tells her he knows it.

She swallows, reminding herself that she's not allowed to make a scene, and smooths her hair (which he's tangled a bit with his grip) with as much dignity as she can muster.

"You're here to kiss me?" she asks. She sounds a bit more breathless than she'd like, but she's managed not to a) throw herself at him or b) beg him to do it again, so she'll call it a victory.

"Not at all," he says. He's still grinning, and she tries desperately to think of an adjective other than _feral_ to describe it, because that's just off-putting. Unfortunately, the only other adjectives that come to mind are far too flattering to be applied to a traitor like Ward. "It was just a bonus."

There is a not-insignificant part of her which is thrilled to hear Ward refer to kissing her as a _bonus_. She sternly reminds it that Ward is a manipulative creep who is absolutely playing her right now. It sulks.

(It's possible her brain has been addled by that kiss. This is concerning.)

"Ward," she says, as sharply as she's able. "Enough games. _What_ are you doing here?"

He sighs, heavily, but there's something mocking about it. "You want the truth?"

"Well, obviously."

"I'm here to do your job for you," he says, and kisses her again.

She's hyper-aware of every point of contact between them—of the scrape of his beard and the pressure of his lips and the slide of his tongue against hers, obviously, but also of the rough scratch of denim against her bare skin as he stands between her thighs, of the warmth of his hand as it cups her jaw. So of course she notices what he's doing with his other hand, feels the brush of his knuckles between her breasts as he tucks the thumb drive into her bra. Of _course_ she notices. It sends a jolt of pure lust straight to her core, sets every nerve on fire—how could she possibly miss it?

She lets herself ignore it, though, because if she acknowledges it, she'll have to end the kiss. And if this is the last chance she ever gets to kiss him—and it _will_ be, it _has_ to be, because he's _literally evil_, he is treacherous, murderous _scum_—she wants to enjoy it.

And she does.

He does, too, she thinks; certainly he's just as breathless as she is, when they finally part. He presses a final, brief kiss to her lips—soft and chaste where the other two were passionate and intense—and then steps back, out of her reach.

She takes a moment to catch her breath and, now that the highly distracting and (unfortunately) pleasurable contact between them has ceased, finds it completely impossible to ignore the discomfort of having a hard bit of plastic tucked into her bra. She curls one hand along the edge of her stool for balance (she's feeling more than a little light-headed, at the moment) and, after a brief glance around to check that no one's watching (no one is, aside from Ward, and she is _not thinking_ about the look in his eyes), fishes the thumb drive out of her bra.

There's a sinking feeling in her chest as she stares at it, taking in the logo and the serial number etched into the side. This is, without question, the thumb drive she was ordered to retrieve.

She recalls her instructions for this mission, the orders Coulson gave her when he called her into his office this afternoon: sit at the bar, sip her drink, don't make a scene. The doctor whose classified research she needed to liberate would come to her, he said—she's exactly his type. All she had to do was distract him enough that she could pick his pocket, as their intelligence indicated he _always_ carried a copy of his research on him.

It will be encrypted, naturally, but Skye can take care of that.

Of course the doctor in question hasn't actually approached her. He would have to be insane to make a move on a woman who, as she no doubt has, appears to be involved with a man like Ward. Even dressed down in civilian garb as he is, with no visible weapons, he simply _exudes_ menace.

In that sense, her mission has been a complete failure. In another, it's been a complete success.

She has no idea what to say. "I—"

"You're welcome," Ward says. "Let's be honest, you've got no hope of picking _anyone's_ pocket."

"I—" She can't deny it. She's never picked a pocket in her life.

"Gotta go," he says. "But it's been fun, Simmons. We should do this again sometime."

"No," she manages. She curls shaking fingers around the thumb drive and tucks it into the pocket of her (Skye's) skirt. "We really shouldn't."

"If you say so," he says, and leans in close to her once more. "By the way?" He walks his fingers up her thigh to the hem of her skirt, and the touch does _not_ make (more) heat pool between her thighs. It doesn't. "I wasn't kidding. This really is a great look for you."

Then he's gone, disappearing into the crowd like he was never there, and Jemma is left alone, aching for the touch of the absolute last person she should want.

This has not been a good night.

She swivels her stool to face the bar again and motions to the bartender for another drink. Her first is still half full, but she hasn't paid it any attention in far too long, and she won't risk drinking it now.

Once she has her drink, she stays right where she is, sipping slowly at it while she tries to get her hands to stop shaking.

Five minutes after Ward's departure, Hunter climbs onto the stool next to her.

"So," he says. "May was right, was she?"

"It would appear so," she agrees. Her voice is just as unsteady as her hands; Hunter, in the act of making himself comfortable on his stool, manages to bump his shoulder against hers three times in the span of ten seconds, and it helps a little. "Ward has us bugged somehow."

"He knew about the fake mission," Hunter says, slouching against the bar.

"And, I suspect, that my orders were not to make a scene," she agrees. "He wouldn't have gone so far, otherwise."

"Right." Hunter looks skeptical, but is kind enough not to contradict her. "That would mean he has Coulson's office bugged, at the very least. So what are we going to do about it, then?"

Jemma knocks back the last of her drink and motions the bartender over.

"I have no bloody idea."


	11. Somebody yelled dibs (JemmaSkyeWardFitz)

A/N: astonishes asked: "[text] "I just walked into a room at this party and somebody yelled 'dibs!'..." + Ward/Simmons/Fitz/Skye (because I'm having a lot of feels for these four lately and your writing always makes my day!"

* * *

Jemma is going to hold this over their heads forever. For. Ever.

"Go to a party," she mocks, adopting her best impersonation of Skye. It is, she knows, a horrible one. "Get to know somebody. We hate to think of you being all alone up there."

It's unkind of her to be annoyed by the sentiment. She _has _been lonely, living by herself—sleeping alone, working alone, eating alone, doing the shopping and the laundry and the cleaning alone—after two years sharing space with Skye and Fitz and Grant. Still, she knew that going to a party wouldn't be the best way to go about fixing that.

Of course, she was utterly able to resist their combined powers of persuasion, and so she succumbed to the suggestion (order) with—incredibly reluctant—grace.

Now she has proof that it was the wrong path to take, and so she is perhaps a little more gleeful than she should be when she texts the others, _I just walked into a room at this party and someone yelled 'dibs!'…_

As expected, it takes less than three seconds for Grant to reply, _I'll kill him_. Also as expected, Skye and Fitz's responses are identical and arrive near-simultaneously. _Grant will kill him_.

She rolls her eyes. _There's no call for murder. I politely declined and he was very gracious about it._

_Don't care_, is Grant's response. _I'm still gonna kill him._

_How can you kill him?_ She texts back quickly. _I've given you nothing by which to identify him_.

_Point_, he allows. _Guess I'll just have to kill everyone at the party_.

She makes a face at her phone. It's been years since Grant was the out-of-control, frankly _terrifying_ murderer they first met—long enough that not only does he feel comfortable joking about it, but that she, Fitz, and Skye feel comfortable laughing—but there are still times that she gets the unsettling feeling that he's not actually joking.

This is one of those times, which she'll blame on the fact that tone is very difficult to read through a text message.

Still, mass murder isn't something he indulges in these days (that she knows of, at least), so she'll go with the assumption that it's a joke.

_And how would you manage that?_ she asks. _You've no way of knowing who's at this party and, even if you did, are a thousand miles away, besides. _

"You sure about that?"

Jemma drops her phone and whirls to face the owner of the unexpected voice, certain that her ears are playing a cruel trick on her. If they are, however, her eyes must be in on it as well; standing before her, hands tucked in his pockets and smug grin on his beautiful, beautiful face, is one of the three people she loves most in the world.

"Grant!" she cries, and throws herself at him.

He folds his arms around her and presses a kiss to the top of her head, and she can hear the smile in his voice when he asks, "Miss me?"

"Of _course_ I missed you!" she exclaims. She'd like to pinch him for the question (he's fishing for compliments, which is a habit she and the others have been trying to break him of), but she can't bear to let go of him even for a moment, so she compromises by squeezing him with all her might. "What are you doing here? If anyone finds out—"

"They won't," he promises, kissing her hair again. "No one saw me come in, and there's too much of a crowd here for anyone to notice me now."

He removes one arm from around her, but before she can protest, he uses his newly freed hand to tip her chin up in order to kiss her properly, and that—well. It's certainly worth the loosening of his embrace.

She kisses him once—twice—three times before her questions outweigh her desperation for him (but only just).

"Still," she says. "It's a risk. And the others—"

"Fitz and Skye are safe at home," he cuts in. "Very loudly complaining about me being sent on a mission when you've already been taken away from us." He kisses her again, gently. "No one's gonna find out, Jem. I promise."

It's a risk, and a dangerous one—the consequences if he's caught!—but she can't bring herself to protest it any further.

"I missed you," she says, voice breaking. "So much."

"I know," he sooths, and kisses her once more. "We missed you, too." He looks around, a disdainful frown tugging at the corners of his mouth, and then steps away from her, taking her hand. "Come on. Let's find somewhere a little…quieter."

As is to be expected of a house party, there aren't many quiet spots to be found. Grant, however, seems to have the layout of the house memorized—because of course he does—and he leads her unerringly to a small study on the second floor.

"Soundproofed," he explains, smugly, as he closes the door behind them. Sure enough, the noise level drops abruptly; they could be alone in the house, for how quiet it is in here.

There's an oversized armchair near the fireplace, and it's to that he leads her. He sits down, tugging her into his lap, and she curls happily into his embrace, even as she frets over his presence.

SHIELD has always frowned, somewhat, on the unconventional relationship the four of them share, and Grant's status as a former HYDRA agent doesn't help. Still, as long as it didn't affect their work, and as long as Grant continued to serve SHIELD loyally, they were allowed to live as they wished. And they did, happily, for two whole years.

And then Jemma messed it up.

She can admit, now, that her actions were unwise—driven entirely by emotion and not the least bit rational. But Fitz and Skye were taken hostage and Grant was nearly killed trying to prevent it, and she—well, she lost her head a little.

She disobeyed orders, both immediate and standing, and exposed an entire HYDRA base to an infectious agent of her own design. _Emotionally motivated biological warfare_, her superiors called it, and she can't really deny the claim, even if she thinks it's a touch dramatic.

SHIELD decided that their relationship couldn't stand. It was only May's intervention that stopped them _all_ from being forcibly and permanently separated; she managed to bargain their sentence (and it _is_ a sentence, as bad in its way as imprisonment) down, and they were given the chance to prove that they're not _entirely_ compromised.

Jemma was sent away alone, while the others were allowed to remain home and continue as they were accustomed. They're allowed epistolary contact only—text messages, post cards, and emails—and they have a weekly limit.

It feels, to be frank, like living under the rule of a completely unreasonable and overprotective parent, and Jemma hates it. A lot.

Still, it's almost over. Six more weeks and their case will be reviewed by the Office of Agent Conduct (the official title; Skye has other, less kind, names for it), and she might be allowed to go home.

That chance is the only thing that's got her through these horrible months of separation, and Grant is risking it now.

"Stop worrying," he says, pressing a kiss to her temple. "I know what I'm doing."

"I can't help it," she says. "If you're caught…"

"I won't be," he reiterates. "Here, I've got something to take your mind off of it."

He shifts her slightly in his lap so he can reach his pocket, drawing out a phone and handing it over.

"Your phone?" she asks, confused. Then she frowns, examining it. "This isn't your phone."

"No," he says. "It isn't." He resettles her (and she's missed this, the easy way he manhandles them, just moving them to wherever he wants them without so much as a by-your-leave; she's missed watching Skye try to flee the kitchen when it's her turn to do the washing up, missed laughing with Fitz while Grant catches Skye and carries her to the sink without breaking a sweat) so she's sitting with her back to his chest and his arms around her waist. "Bought clandestinely, with cash, and personally encrypted by Skye." He hooks his chin over her shoulder. "Turn it on."

She does (though not without elbowing him a bit for his imperious tone), and tears spring to her eyes at once. The lock-screen is a familiar photo: the four of them in their living room, Grant's face the particular mix of fond and long-suffering he only gets around them, Skye's alight with laughter, and Fitz's scrunched in a scowl. Looking at her own face—smug in the victory she's just won against Fitz in Scrabble—hurts a little; it feels like years since she's been that happy.

Grant's arms tighten around her waist like he knows what she's thinking, and he kisses her neck softly.

"Unlock it."

She does; the combination only takes two tries to guess. She barely has a moment to take in the home screen before the phone is ringing with an incoming Face Time. Her heart leaps, and she doesn't need Grant's prodding to hit accept.

Skye and Fitz's faces appear on the screen, and just like that, she loses the battle against her tears.

"No, no," Skye says, sounding a little teary herself. Her voice is so familiar and beloved that Jemma cries that much harder, much to Skye's distress. "You can't cry, Jem, please—you'll get me started."

"Again," is Fitz's contribution, and he's got that irritated tone that means he's feeling overly emotional and hates it. "She's already cried twice today." He looks aggrieved. "Ruined my new tie snotting all over it."

"It was ugly anyway," Skye says, unashamed, and Jemma laughs around a sob.

"I miss you," she says.

"Well, that's fine," Fitz says. "Finally have some peace and quiet to work in. I haven't missed you at all."

"_That_ is a blatant lie, Leopold Fitz," she says. "As though you could have peace and quiet with Skye there."

"Hey!" Skye says, as Grant hides a smile in Jemma's shoulder. "I mean, true, but still." Fitz opens his mouth, then winces a bit; Jemma suspects Skye has just elbowed him. "But enough banter. I want to know how you've been—and the truth, okay? No stiff-upper-lipping it like you've been doing in your emails."

"Agreed," Fitz says, pointing at her. "Be honest. We'll know if you're not."

And they will, is the thing. She's so much better at lying than she used to be, but she could never lie to them—to her heart, in its three distinct and lovely pieces.

"As you wish," she says, just to see Skye grin and Fitz roll his eyes. Behind her, Grant sighs; the _Princess Bride_ debate is still ongoing. "Where shall I start?"

"How about the guy who called dibs?" Skye suggests. "Has Grant killed him yet?"

"Not yet," Grant says, and his voice has a hint of that worryingly light tone that used to spell trouble. "Give me time."

"Or I could start at the beginning," she decides, and leans back against Grant's chest, turning slightly to press a quick kiss to his jaw. Some of the tension melts out of him, and she smiles, smug. "First of all, you would not _believe_ the lab they've stuck me in…"

They spend hours catching up, and while it's miles away from what she wants—which, in an ideal world, would be to curl up with the three of them in their bed at home and not leave for at least two days—it's also miles away from what she's had, and she'll take what she can get.

When Grant finally takes his leave—reluctantly and with many muttered threats against SHIELD—she's able to see him off with barely a tear.

She'll be home soon enough.


	12. Bail me out? (Arrow crossover)

A/N: safelycapricious asked: "[text] "So...are we close enough friends that you're willing to bail me out?" Jemma and Felicity brotp"

* * *

Felicity's about three lines of code away from completing the program she's writing (call it an insurance policy; their lair's been compromised about five times too many for her taste, and it's about time she did something about it) when her phone beeps with an incoming text message.

She doesn't want to stop, not when she's on a roll, so close to finishing after spending nearly two full days working on this, but in their line of work (or, well, line of extracurricular activities, really, but whatever), it's never a good idea to ignore your phone.

So she compromises. "Roy, could you check my phone, please?"

"Seriously?" Roy grumbles, but he's already setting down his bow and abandoning target practice to join her at her desk. "It's literally right next to you."

"I'm busy," she says mildly. Two lines to go, and she's _definitely_ going to have to treat herself to something nice once she gets this done. She'll still need to implement it, test it, and then make whatever changes are necessary, but it's innovative and creative and, to be blunt, _really freaking pretty_ code. She deserves a reward for being so awesome.

"And I wasn't?" he counters, even as he picks up her phone. He frowns skeptically at the screen. "Uh, someone named Jemma wants to know if you're good enough friends to bail her out."

Felicity's so shocked that she actually hits three keys at once, and has to hurriedly backspace. Oliver pauses half-way up the salmon ladder.

"Felicity?" he asks.

"Give me that," she says, and snatches her phone out of Roy's hands.

Sure enough, the text is from Jemma, and it says _So…are we close enough friends that you're willing to bail me out?_

They've been best friends for years, since they were just kids and Felicity's well-meaning mother enrolled her in what was, essentially, a child prodigy pen-pal club. (That was not at all the point of the whole exercise, but Felicity's long since forgotten what _was_—if she ever even knew it. What mattered at the time was that Felicity got a long-distance best friend out of it and her mom stopped talking about making her skip a few grades.) The idea that Felicity might _not_ bail Jemma out—might not do _anything_ for Jemma's sake—is ridiculous.

Or it would've been, maybe. Before.

She's pretty sure there's a silent _still_ tacked in there, between _we_ and _close_. The vague-yet-menacing government agency Jemma works for recently came crashing down in a super public and super terrifying way; words like _treason_ and _duplicity_ have been tossed around like candy, and every single person who's ever so much as spoken to a SHIELD agent is being looked at with suspicion.

This is the first time she's heard from Jemma since the truth came out. Maybe Jemma thinks _Felicity_ thinks she's a traitor, a secret member of HYDRA. Maybe she thinks Felicity suspects her.

So…yeah, no, it's _still_ a ridiculous idea.

She went looking, but there was nothing about Jemma in the flood of SHIELD files that appeared on the internet after the HYDRA bomb (figuratively speaking, and wow, that's a turn of phrase she's not gonna be using ever again; way to be insensitive, Felicity) dropped, and Felicity detected the touch of another hacker—another _really talented_ hacker—there. So she doesn't know conclusively, one hundred percent for sure that Jemma's not HYDRA.

But come on. It's _Jemma_. Of course she's not HYDRA.

_I'm gonna pretend you didn't ask me that_, she texts back. _Where are you?_

_Downtown Los Angeles,_ Jemma replies quickly. _Perhaps five minutes away from being arrested._

_On my way_, she types. _You can use your one phone call to explain yourself_. She hits send, considers her message, and then adds, _It had better be a really great explanation. Including such details as WHY it took you so long to contact me._

_Yes, ma'am_, is the response, followed a second later by, _All right, I have to go get arrested. Please bring me a change of clothes._

Felicity has _so many _questions, but they'll have to wait. Right now, she's apparently needed in LA.

She saves her code and shuts the computers down hurriedly, and has already collected her coat and purse before she realizes that Oliver is standing on the other side of her desk, watching her expectantly.

"I have to go," she says. "I'll be back…" She hesitates. Who knows what kind of trouble Jemma is in or how long it'll take to fix? "Eventually."

"Eventually?" Roy echoes, clearly unimpressed.

Oliver is doing that worried thing with his eyebrows. "Felicity, what's going on?"

"Friend in need," she says shortly. She doesn't really have time for explanations; it'll take a while to get to LA, especially if she needs to make a stop for clothes, and she doesn't want Jemma to have to spend any longer in jail than totally necessary. "I'll be in touch."

She pecks Oliver on the cheek as she passes him, which—in addition to serving as a semi-intimate goodbye (necessary because they're still in a very murky more-than-friends, less-than-lovers territory)—has the benefit of freezing him in place long enough for her to make it to the top of the stairs unimpeded.

"Later, be safe, call me if you need anything!" she throws over her shoulder, and then she's out the door.

Jemma had better have a _really good_ explanation for all this.


End file.
